


I Can't See You

by kxmjxngs



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - MAMA (EXO Music Video), Alternate Universe - Monster (EXO Music Video), Ambiguous Relationships, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, But also, EXO Have Powers, Emotional Hurt, Escape, Gen, How Do I Tag, I'm Sorry, If you want - Freeform, It happens, No Romance, Sorry Not Sorry, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Torture, Two Shot, Vomiting, Why Did I Write This?, but i didn't specify anything in the work, i don't know if it falls under a mama au or monster au, it's up to you, that's why i tagged some of the "pairings" that interact, you can look at their interactions romantically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-13 01:36:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15353325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kxmjxngs/pseuds/kxmjxngs
Summary: They’re twelve—they’ve always been twelve. To not be twelve is unfathomable. Their lives before each other are difficult to remember, difficult to think how they could’ve gotten by without each other. To be without each other—it’s unnatural. And the gaping hole in their group right now—it’s driving them insane.





	1. o1

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, I don't even know where to begin. I supposed with an apology? I don't know where this work came from. It was the first idea I had for EXO in a long—and, I mean, really long—time. I started drafting it a while ago, before I got sidetracked with "Know That I Am". I guess I needed something less intense than this work to write for a bit? I don't know. But I guess I'm sorry, just a bit, for what you're about to read.
> 
> This is long, undoubtedly, and I really don't know what triggered this idea. I think I was watching an EXO concert when I got hit by inspiration for this fic (all whilst writing my final term paper for a seminar), and I'm kind of proud I managed to finish it. This kind of fic isn't my forte at all, so this was a bit of a challenge to write.
> 
> I honestly hope it's a bearable read despite the subject matter.
> 
> I said it in the tags, but ships are really ambiguous in this fic. I tagged some of the duos I could remember off the top of my head interacting, and if you want to view their interactions as romantic, be my guest. The main focus of this story is the interactions between the members and the deep bonds they share, but it can be viewed as romantic, so take your pick, honestly. It's a free for all.
> 
> Anyways, I hope you all enjoy! (Don't hate me too much for this work, please.)

There’s an almost expected quality to it, Tao thinks, but maybe there isn’t, also.

Things had been going well for them. Things seemed to be settling in a way they hadn’t been before; the media calming down, their faces finally being forgotten. He had heard Junmyeon talking to Yifan about maybe finally settling down permanently, finding a house for all of them and letting them go to university or get jobs or simply experience life normally again.

The chaos from the initial discovering of their abilities and the reality of what they were five years ago seemed to have died down, people and the media relaxing and switching directions, forgetting about the boy that disappeared or the kid who survived a spontaneous tornado or the one whose terminal cancer healed miraculously overnight along with the cancer of the patients near him or the guy who somehow survived being stranded in a blizzard with only a meager coat.

Things had been going _well_ , is the point Tao’s getting at, and he doesn’t understand how it all went so wrong so fast.

The trip had been Luhan’s idea, a way to tentatively test the waters of society. It had seemed innocent enough—“Let’s take a trip to a popular tourist spot—but one that won’t be so packed.” If the people didn’t seem to recognize them or care about their existence, then maybe they could take it as a good sign and make their way back into society bit by bit before finally settling down. Maybe it would mean that they really could go back and get a taste for normal life again instead of the constant shifting around.

Tao had been so excited.

_All of them_ had been so excited.

He had never imagined it could go wrong like this. Never in his wildest dreams did he picture the scene that spread out in front of him—the carnage, the heart ache, the sheer disaster of a trip.

There’s a man hitting Jongin over the head with the butt of his gun, another man running over with a syringe.

There’s a woman with an arm around Chanyeol’s neck, squeezing tight and suffocating.

There’s a jeep plowing into Kyungsoo, sending him sprawling in a sick thud of flesh.

There are grenades being launched at Sehun, detonations setting off too close to him, sending up shocks of dirt and fire.

There’s a flame thrower aimed at Minseok, burning him up in the already hot atmosphere, orange licking at exposed skin, eager to feed and consume.

There are bullets flying at Luhan, whizzing through the air and trying to embed in his chest, honing in on him as he tries to bat them away in frenzy, rooting him in place, away from his friends.

There’s Junmyeon hauling Yixing out of the way of a man with a knife, his fingers screwed tightly in his collar, trying to wrench the screaming man along.

There’s Jongdae, sending a bolt at the jeep that rammed into Kyungsoo, screaming at the top of his lungs as he tears across the expanse separating them.

There’s Baekhyun struggling under the bulk of a beast of a man, trying to scramble away while a blade hacks blindly at him, trying to meet its target.

There’s Yifan, arm wrapped around Tao’s chest tightly as he screams for his friends lives, tears streaking hot down his cheeks.

“You need to calm down, Tao,” Yifan hisses, voice gruff. “Calm down and do something. Stop this, stop time, stop _something_ —just please, _please_ , stop this. Focus and stop this.”

It’s so hard to hear the plea in the words, making him sob harder, shaking all over as he hiccups, lungs burning, even as Yifan curses and ducks, gripping tight as he launches off the ground with a roar of exertion, moving away from a man aiming a bazooka at them, yelling for Junmyeon to duck. He can barely think, can barely speak, and he can feel Yifan’s hand in his hair, trying to get him to calm down, but he’s numb, the world flickering between stagnation and motion, creating a clip show he _doesn’t want to witness_.

“Tao, calm down, please calm down—come on, please,” Yifan is pleading in his ear, but he can’t breathe, can’t think, and he doesn’t want to feel right now, doesn’t want to see, doesn’t want to witness anything happening. “Fucking— _dammit_ ,” Yifan hisses, and suddenly he’s gone and Tao is stuck watching in horror as Yifan rushes around him, yelling for Luhan, long legs carrying him in a dead sprint and launching him up to ram feet first into the guy aiming an automatic at Luhan’s head, the order he’s yelling lost to Tao’s ears in the craze of the moment.

Tao isn’t sure he’s even breathing, vision fracturing and repairing in waves while the picture stops and starts. He doesn’t want to see, doesn’t want to see— _doesn’t want to see_ —and his knees give way, sending him to the ground, head pressing into the dirt of the dry earth, but _he can still hear._

He can hear Jongin’s screams, “No, please, no, no, _no_ —you can’t—you can’t—stop it, stop it, _stop_!”

He can hear Junmyeon’s voice ringing clear, trying to get them to gather and trying to get them to safety. He can hear the strain in the words as he calls their names, the plea staining them, making the words so much harder to listen to amongst the cacophony of shrieks and sobs. He can hear Yixing howling in his arms, can see the veins bulging in his neck in his mind’s eyes, and he squeezes his eyes shut harder, not wanting to imagine, not wanting to think.

He can hear Sehun’s harsh breathing as hands hook under his arms, wrenching him up and back, and he’s shrieking, kicking, not wanting to see, not wanting to witness, but Sehun’s grabbing at him and pulling, dragging him while powerful gusts of wind bat away flying projectiles. His voice is shaky in Tao’s ear, strained as he tells Tao to stop crying and _move_ , “For fuck’s sake, please—not you, too; not you, too— _move_ , please,” in a bitten order and plea.

Jongin isn’t moving, and there’s blood covering his face before a bag is being wrapped around it and strapped tight. Luhan is flinging a jeep at them, the same one Jongdae blasted, the same one stained with Kyungsoo’s blood, running towards them and into the blanket cover of Sehun’s winds. Jongdae is hunched over Kyungsoo, and there’s blood dripping down his chin, making the corners of his lips seem endless and sawed open as he screams himself hoarse, begging for them to stop, bolts coming down at every oncoming threat while blood seeps into his shirt at the center of his abdomen.

Yifan reached Junmyeon and he’s holding Yixing’s shrieking body, exchanging a look with Junmyeon before launching himself and the sobbing man towards where Sehun is shoving Tao into the Jeep, winds intensifying in a dome; Luhan popping open the board and flicking through wires, sweat beading at his brow and skin looking ashen.

Tao can’t tear his eyes off the scene as Junmyeon tries to reach Chanyeol who is being hauled at an awkward angle backwards; lips purple and face blue, fingers clawing, eyes staring sightlessly upwards. Baekhyun gives out a shriek, and Tao’s eyes snap to see the blade embedded in his shoulder, the strong hand threatening to rip and tear and hack, and he sees Junmyeon falter, looking at it, suddenly unsure on his direction. He hears Minseok yell for Jongdae, watches the sweating man falter and get enveloped by the flames for a moment before Jongdae is sending a bolt at the wielder of the fire, knocking the guy back.

He watches Minseok drop, sweating, clothes singed, red on his arms and neck—watches Junmyeon turn to go in that direction instead, panic and hesitation and anger and sadness chasing each other around on his face. And then Kyungsoo is yelling, voice rising like a low mournful howl, raw and hoarse, a full body, _“No!”_ as Jongdae jerks where he stands before stumbling, red further staining his clothes as his knees buckle and he ends up sprawled on the ground next to Kyungsoo’s body, bullets flying over their heads.

He watches Kyungsoo’s dirty fingers claw at the earth, dragging himself closer to Jongdae. He watches Minseok try to get over to them, watches Junmyeon try to get to Baekhyun or Chanyeol or Minseok or Kyungsoo or Jongdae—before Yifan is there and grabbing at him, and Kyungsoo is looking back at them with pleading eyes.

Tao doesn’t know what silent exchange happens in the space of time that seems to stretch like an eternity, doesn’t know if he’s halted time again or if it’s still moving, doesn’t know if he’s even breathing or if this is all just a bad dream or if this haunting image is actually reality.

He only knows this.

He knows that the ground splits between those of them in the jeep and those in the hands of the attackers as Kyungsoo’s hand comes down on the ground with a resounding crack.

He knows there’s a bright shock of light as Baekhyun lets out a shredded scream.

He knows that there are only six of them in the jeep as it lurches forward.

He knows that six are left behind.

And he knows that he hears Junmyeon scream like never before as Yifan holds him firm in the Jeep despite how hard he fights to get free.

 

 

 

It’s cold.

It’s so cold.

He feels like he’s crawling through slime as he struggles to wake up, digging and clawing his way back to consciousness with an effort that seems monumental. He can feel that he’s pressed flat against something, cold lining his whole front, and the more energy he expends on waking up, the less he feels he possesses as he slowly comes to term with his limbs and remembers their functions.

He doesn’t want to wake up, he realizes, as the cold seeping into his bones becomes more prominent and his eyes twitch beneath their lids. He doesn’t want to be awake and discover where he is because he doubts he’s at home with his friends—and the thought scares him.

Where is he? What happened?

His mind feels sluggish and it takes a bit for the memories to trickle in—too long for his chilling body. He shifts, dragging his arms beneath his body to push himself up to sit—

He finds himself slammed against the wall with the force of the jet that comes from somewhere, he can’t tell, and his arms form a barrier around his head automatically, legs jerking to curl protectively around his middle, eyes squeezing shut as ice cold drips down his forehead, soaks into his garments, and renders him a shivering mess.

The jet doesn’t let up for what feels like an eternity, and it feels like his side is growing a hole in it under the sharp pressure, but then the water stops and he feels like he can breathe. Every breath shakes, though, as it enters, and his throat throbs fiercely with each draw in. He doesn’t know what happened, can’t remember around the ache in his neck, the burn in his lungs, and the tremor in his limbs. His side feels bruised and like it would swell if it wasn’t freezing and that worries him—it makes him force his eyes open despite the exhaustion that fills him and the pounding in his head.

The ground beneath him is cement, that much he can tell, and he turns his head to take in the rest of his surroundings—

Another jet has him jerking back, chest heaving, eyes wide, as his hands fly up to protect his face, and he shifts off his hands and knees, crying out as the skin of his bare feet scrape and slide against the water covering the ground, sending him roughly onto his ass, feet kicking to push himself to the wall, trying to get out of the jet’s range or far enough that the pressure won’t be so intense.

It feels like another small eternity before the water stops, and his chest hurts something fierce, his fingers stiff from the cold, and his teeth chatter as he draws in a wet breath, coughing as he inhales some water, ducking his head, eyes locking with the thin, wet fabric clinging to his legs—

Another jet hits and he screams.

It doesn’t hurt—or maybe it does and he just can’t process it, the freezing temperature numbing the pain before his mind registers it. The scream isn’t one of pain. He’s not sure where it originates from. He thinks its exhaustion or confusion or anger, but his mind feels as frozen as his body, and he can’t summon a flame to keep himself warm.

He thinks a door opens, but he’s not sure. He knows someone is there, though, almost magically; their steps echo off the walls, sending his mind into an acknowledgement that he is well and truly alone in the four walled room, the jet turned off now. It’s not one someone, but two—he can tell by the sound of the footsteps—and they stand just outside his peripheral. He turns his head to get them in his line of sight, shifts to be more comfortable—

Another jet of water wreaks havoc on his body, and he thinks he’s starting to understand the trigger—at least, subconsciously—because his body is jerking and an arm is coming up to take some of the pressure off his body as his legs slowly burst into spontaneous function and his long limbs are somehow scraping his wet body across the ground, somehow never managing to get out from under the pressure of the jet, only stopping as his back knocks against what he is pretty sure is a corner of the room.

He sits under the spray for only a few seconds more before it lets up and his arm falls limply into his lap, legs stretched out in front of him, and he looks at how his feet look like they’re devoid of all color before his eyes flick up to take in the two figures he remembers were in his room. Water drips into his eyes, but he doesn’t risk moving to push his hair back and wipe the droplets away.

He blinks, watches the duo take stock of him—or, at least, that’s what he thinks they’re doing. He can’t be sure, and the shivers wracking his body aren’t making it any easier to discern whatever it is that’s going on, his thoughts hazy and splintered under the continued recognition of how cold it is—cold, cold, _cold—_ and his throat hurts and he wants a blanket and a thermostat he can turn up as high as he wants to eat away at the chill that’s gripping his bones and sucking all the energy out.

“Park Chanyeol,” one of the two asks, and he thinks that they’re kind of short, but he can’t discern the gender. The voice is warbling and, if he’s honest, he’s not entirely sure which one of them spoke. His eyes feel swollen and his throat tight, and there’s a burn building in his nose, spreading across his cheeks and up into his waterways.

It’s with minimal shame that Chanyeol comes to the realization that the burn is tears forming, slipping in hot trails down his cheeks as he takes in the duo and feels the confirmation screw itself home that he is most definitely nowhere near his friends—or any friends.

It only becomes more apparent by the continued apathy on the faces of the people as he shudders and draws his knees to his chest, the blast of the water obscuring the people from his vision and washing away the heat of his tears.

He swallows whatever drops of water leak down to his lips, something telling him he shouldn’t count on these people to deliver some form of water or sustenance in the future.

 

 

 

Junmyeon wants to cry. He wants to break down and sob and kick and scream, but he _can’t_ —he can’t because one look at Sehun and Tao huddled together, both looking like they’re only just barely holding each other together, and he remembers that it’s not just him hurting and they need him to be strong.

He almost can’t look at Yifan, can’t bear to see the face of the man who took him away from the other six members of their family. He knows it’s not his fault. He knows that these guys need him just as much as the others, but he can’t help it.

Every time he closes his eyes, he sees Minseok’s body being enveloped in those flames. He sees Chanyeol’s eyes staring wide and sightless before him, his lips blue, mouth gaping open, tongue swollen. He sees Kyungsoo’s body lying in a heap on the ground, the backs of his hands scraped raw and bleeding, his throat straining as he screams, cheek purple and blue, blood dripping down his temple—

Junmyeon stops thinking, turning his head to look at Yifan despite how strongly a part of him doesn’t want to.

The man is staring resolutely ahead, jaw clicking as he flexes it, lips pursing and relaxing. He looks stressed and like he, too, wants nothing more than to break down. Junmyeon wonders why he doesn’t, but then he considers that it might be for the same reasons as him. It makes Junmyeon’s chest ache, but bitterness curls there, too, and tries to beat any sense of sympathy away.

It’s because of him the others were left behind, a part of him insists, but Junmyeon knows that it’s because of Yifan that he wasn’t also one of the ones captured. He can’t imagine what’s happening to the others. He doesn’t know if they’re dead, alive, being tortured, experimented on, put on display like circus freaks, being used as weapons, or whatever. The thoughts of the possibilities scare him, and he thinks that they scare Yifan, too.

He thinks they’ve been driving for a day straight or something, and he knows they’re running low on gas, knows that chances are that the jeep has a GPS tracking device on it. He knows that they’re going to be on foot soon and the second the dot on whatever map the people are looking at stops moving, they’re going to converge on their location and shit’s going to go down. He knows all of this, but he can’t think of how to stop it, able to only glance at the members of his family still within his reach and wonder what’s going to happen to all of them—the ones at his side and the ones who are who knows where.

His stomach turns, and he resolutely looks out at the passing desert, thinking about how much might’ve been avoided if they had continued to be cautious like they had been since the beginning. It was a hopeful thought to be able to settle down, an idealistic thought—a foolish one. It makes him hate himself just a bit more, but it makes him wonder, with a glance at the driver of the jeep, if Luhan hates himself right now for it, too.

He thinks Yifan had that same thought when he took the seat at the front next to Luhan, and a warmth blooms inside of him that joins the ache from earlier in fighting the misguided bitterness.

“How’s Yixing,” Yifan asks, his gaze flicking back to look at Junmyeon, voice low and quiet, eyes searching. Junmyeon wonders what’s on his expression, if Yifan can see the battle warring inside of him, if he can predict the bitterness Junmyeon is battling in regards to him—if that’s why he can’t quite meet his gaze for longer than a few moments.

He wonders if it even matters. None of it changes their situation right now. A glance at Yixing next to him makes him wonder if he’s truly suffering right now, looking at the slack expression on the male’s face. He looks like he’s not even a part of their world at that moment, expression dazed, cheeks still wet as tears continue to drip silently, upper lip stained with snot, breaths escaping his mouth dryly. Maybe what he’s feeling now is nothing compared to what Yixing seems to be suffering through right here, right now.

He fumbles uncertainly for a beat before simply tugging the sleeve of his sweater down to cover his hand, reaching over and wiping at the snot, thumb smoothing away some of the tear tracks, tracks that are quickly made anew with fresh material, Yixing’s head bowing with the direction of Junmyeon’s hand, but remaining ultimately unresponsive.

He meets Yifan’s gaze, helplessly, and he thinks the bitterness is gone for now as he watches Yifan’s face screw up in undeniable pain, reaching over the back of the seat and offering his hand for Junmyeon to cling to, offering his support how he can right now.

And Junmyeon feels selfish for accepting his strength, but he doesn’t think he can hold himself together without it, so he lets himself be selfish, clinging tight to those fingers, looking at the unresponsive Yixing, the in shock Sehun, the trembling Tao, and the stoic Luhan. And he looks back at Yifan and thinks that if Yifan has some strength to spare, then he’ll gladly take it for now.

 

 

 

Meeting their gaze is a hassle, he decides almost instantly, his eyes falling to stare uselessly at the ground, flicking to take in his feet where they dangle in midair, useless, not allowed to support him. He can feel the points of pressure and pain in his back and along his arms where the hooks are embedded.

He can see the red drops of his own blood dripping onto the ground beneath him, looking deceptively like water when they hit the dark cement. It lets him delude himself into believing that maybe things aren’t as bad as they feel right now, but he’s never been good at lying to himself. The ache in his limbs and the way every shuddering breath in _hurts_ destroys whatever illusion he tries to craft that maybe things will be fine.

He’s not entirely sure he can feel his arms, thinks he’s long ago lost feeling in his fingers, and he doesn’t have the strength to hold his head up, letting it loll forward uselessly. He wonders if he’ll be allowed to stand on his own any time soon—or ever—while he remains here. Somehow he severely doubts it, if the way the people in, what he can only really call, his cell take notes and circle around him is anything to go by.

He feels like he’s on display, but also like he’s invisible. It’s a feeling that makes his head hurt and he doesn’t want to think about it too hard. He wants to know where the others are, if the ones that made it away are safe, if the others here—wherever here is—are in a similar condition as he is. He wants someone to lean on right now, desperately, but he knows there’s no one there. It’s just him and the two people who are poking at his feet right now, speaking in hushed words he’s too exhausted to parse the meaning of even though he knows he should probably be trying to listen in.

Their presence serves to only confuse him further, though, if he’s being honest, and the acknowledgement of that makes him anxious. He doesn’t know what their presence means. He doesn’t know if he’s going to be auctioned off, made into a weapon, tortured, executed, fitted for robes—he _doesn’t know_. The uncertainties in the situation he finds himself in only serve to make him more anxious, and legitimate concern for him begins to brew in his chest, concern for the others piled on top.

How are they? Are they even alive? What if they were killed already?

He remembers how Chanyeol went down, the life choked out of him, and he wonders if the guy even made it off the field alive in the hands of these people. He wonders if Baekhyun bled out before they could get him to whatever cell they wanted to chuck him in. He wonders if Jongdae even survived the bullets—suddenly wonders if some of the blood staining him isn’t his own but Jongdae’s.

He jerks as nausea seizes him, eyelids fluttering. He thinks he sees the two people—scientists, doctors, military personnel, whatever—jerk back and speak into something—but he can’t tell because smell of burning flesh fills the room and he screams, nausea winning out and all that he had consumed before this whole ordeal comes spilling out, coughs racking his body intermixed with his screams as he thrashes uselessly, the hooks in his skin heating and heating and _heating_ until he’s certain his skin is going to melt and he’ll fall to the floor and land in his sick.

A movement out of the corner of his eye catches his attention, but only for a brief second, the tears fracturing his vision distracting him as he writhes against the hooks, legs kicking uselessly before falling limp, a line of drool dripping down his bottom lip, tears falling slowly to the ground below. The blood on his back feels thick and slow, and he thinks the water and blood really do look similar.

The hooks cool down bit by bit in increments, and his skin feels stretched and abused. He wonders how long he’ll have to endure this, and suddenly he finds himself hoping for them to have a use for him that will let him off the chains holding him suspended above the ground because he’s not sure if he can really take this.

He wonders if the others are suffering something like this—thinks of Minseok suspended in the air by hooks in his skin, and he thanks all the deities he can think of that it seems everything in his stomach already came up because the thought sends nausea racing up his spine and churning in his stomach, making everything tingle unpleasantly, and his mouth water at the ill feeling.

He thinks he’d actually prefer them all to be dead.

 

 

 

It kind of feels like he’s drowning, like he’s suffocating and there’s no way to get air into his lungs, but he’s also not really trying to breathe—is kind of just letting it happen. It makes him feel like he’s tingling all over and like he’s going to vibrate out of his skin even though he’s pretty sure he’s not moving. He thinks he should probably be feeling more than he is right now—should probably be feeling anxious, terrified, worried—but all he can feel is the marrow deep sadness that is threatening to swallow him whole as if it hasn’t already.

He thinks people are concerned about him, and he can feel the brush of hands against his face, the weight on his own hand, the whisper of air by his ear, but he’s not entirely sure he’s receiving the information. It’s kind of like a lagging computer, like he’s running on old software with too much information on it and it’s slowing him down, making the touches that happen now process in his mind too long after, too long for him to appropriately respond and he’s left scrambling, so instead he just continues sitting and waiting for things to load.

The tab still says connecting, though.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he last moved, since he last processed their location, but he’s fairly certain that they hadn’t been in a van when he had last understood where he was. He’s leaning against Luhan, and Junmyeon is behind the wheel, Sehun next to him, and Yifan has his arms wrapped around Tao in the seats behind them while Tao sleeps—fitfully, Yixing guesses, going by the stress on Yifan’s face.

Luhan’s fingers are carding through his hair, the pads of them soft and soothing, and his shoulder’s solid beneath his cheek, body strong and warm against his own. Yixing isn’t entirely sure how he got there, but he knows that he feels safe here, right now. That feeling of security, though, is accompanied by a deep ache that rattles him to his core as he processes the lack of a car behind or in front of them, and the reminder that six members are missing from their family is drilled into him once more.

He hates the reminder—he hates that it happened, hates having watched it happen uselessly, unable to do more than run and be held back by Junmyeon because there really was nothing he could do, his abilities all but useless in that kind of scenario.

He turns his head, buries his nose in the curve of Luhan’s neck and tries not to cry.

He doesn’t know where they are, but he can feel the pain in the air, but this isn’t something he can heal. It isn’t something his touch will alleviate. He’s not sure it’s something that will ever go away until they get the others back, until they’re sure the others are fine.

“How long has it been,” he croaks, voice muffled in the fabric of Luhan’s shirt that smells like dust and sweat and whatever remnants of his cologne cling futilely to the fabric. He feels the male stiffen, and when he tilts his head just slightly, he thinks he sees Luhan smiling, strange as the expression is in a situation like this.

“Glad to have you back with us,” he whispers, and his lips are warm as they brush against his forehead, his fingers continuing to stroke his hair, like he can hear the soft mantra Yixing has going in his head, ‘don’t stop, don’t stop’. He hums, shifting slightly closer, and Luhan accepts the added physical contact easily, their thighs pressing flush together. “Four days,” Luhan admits after a period of silence in which Yixing almost forgets he even asked something to begin with.

The time stamp has his stomach dropping out from under him, but he scoops it back up and fits it back in place, refusing to fall apart now after having been apparently nonfunctional for _four days_.

He tries not to think about what that means for the others, but he’s pretty sure he fails miserably. He’s not sure if he can feel their pain, or if he’s imagining it, but he knows that he hurts and that the pain isn’t all his—it can’t be.

Junmyeon’s head whips around when he makes a noise, and Yixing is grateful for Sehun grabbing the wheel and keeping it stable and preventing them from ending up in an early grave. Junmyeon’s smile is bright, brighter than Yixing has ever remembered it being, lined thickly with relief. His shoulders have a slump to them, and he looks like he just had a great weight removed. It makes a lump form in Yixing’s throat, but he pushes past it and smiles at him, small but there, swallowing thickly and feeling like a bit of the pressure on his own shoulders just let up a bit.

“Eyes on the road,” Sehun grumbles good-naturedly, and Junmyeon’s expression morphs to one of shock before he whirls around, apologizing profusely; his hands settling firmly on the wheel. Yixing thinks there’s nothing better than the laugh that escapes Luhan’s mouth, the snort of amusement from Yifan behind him, and Sehun’s small smile, puffy eyes crinkling at the corners just a bit, just enough.

Yixing thinks selfishly that they’ll be okay.

The ache in his chest reminds him that they probably won’t be.

 

 

 

“You name is Byun Baekhyun,” a voice says, but it sounds hazy and faraway, and his teeth are grinding hard into the plastic in his mouth, and he can feel his arms straining against tight straps and his muscles stiffening. He doesn’t care what his name is. He cares about the pain stopping. He doesn’t deserve it. He hasn’t done anything wrong, he doesn’t think.

He can’t think of much of anything, his thoughts slipping through his fingers like water.

Junmyeon would be able to gather them up for him—except—

_Who is Junmyeon?_

His brow furrows, and the pain starts again, and his legs jerk, but they’re also strapped down, so his knees just tilt to the sides uselessly, fingers flexing, back arching. When the pain stops, he slumps, breathing ragged, the tightness in his chest loosening. He feels like he’s being torn apart, but Yi—

Wait, who?

“Your name is Byun Baekhyun.”

His face contorts in agony as the pain starts again, and he can feel the scrape of plastic on his tongue, the tilt of the bit in his mouth, the way it strokes the insides of his cheeks as his jaw clenches and relaxes. He just wants it to be over. He wants to be far away. He wants to never come back. He wants to close his eyes, feel warm hands on his wrists, and reopen them to a vision of Italy or Egypt or not here. He can do that, all he needs is—

What does he need?

“Your name is Byun Baekhyun.”

He’s not sure anymore, and the thoughts that seemed like water before are boiling now, turning to steam, evaporating, and he’s trying to contain them all, but the container has holes and he can’t get them to stay and they’re filtering away, unable to be perceived by him, spreading to take over every corner of space available to them, but the particles spread so far that they can’t link to form a memory. He needs everything to cool down, for some condensation to form. He needs M—

“Your name is Byun Baekhyun.”

The plastic is slick with saliva as it leaves his mouth, staining his lips and leaving them cool and wet. He thinks he’s sagging, but he can’t really tell. His chest heaves, but he’s not sure why. The straps come undone and his bones can shift and his joints roll without hindrance. He thinks that’s progress, but he’s not sure.

Is this normal?

Is this how things are meant to be?

Has he done this before?

He doesn’t know, and he wonders if the strangers around him know. He wonders if the machine can tell him. He wonders if the seat shows signs of wear, if that will be some kind of indicator.

He can hear the strangers talking, but his vision is kind blurry, and he can’t make out their faces quite yet. They’re little white visages in the smudges of his mind, and he can hear them talking about temporariness and repeats and retrievals, but the words seem disjointed and don’t make sense—just like his thoughts.

He wishes he could snap his fingers and things would be normal, but he wonders if he knows how, watching dizzily as he feels his hand move, lifting up, wrist turning and joints rolling, middle finger rubbing along his thumb, pressing, tight, tight, tight, and pulling, pushing. A sharp, clear sound echoes throughout the room, and he looks at his hand, lips quirking slightly at the light shimmering along the lines of his palms, wonders if the strangers can see it and are equally in awe of its beauty.

“What’s your name,” a voice asks, and he doesn’t know if it’s in his head or if one of the white smudges has spoken up.

“Byun Baekhyun,” he recites, blinking slowly, gaze flicking up to the form shifting in front of him, like large snowflakes or something. He’s not really sure. He thinks snowflakes is wrong for them, thinks the color white is wrong for them, but he’s not sure they know that or care.

“What’s your name?”

It stops being a shimmer and he thinks he feels it going through his veins, his palm shining brightly, getting brighter and brighter. He wonders if the strangers can see, watches how the white of them starts to slowly blend in with the grey behind them as the light gets brighter and brighter, blocking out everything from vision as he clumsily rises on shaking legs. He thinks his knees lock, thinks his ankle twists slightly as he puts his foot down.

He thinks the light is pretty and watches it grow even brighter, ignoring the sounds of the strangers.

He doesn’t think he likes them every much.

“Byun Baekhyun.”

 

 

 

It’s been a week and a half, and where they’re staying at isn’t luxurious or anything. It’s a run-down motel, and all six of them are crammed into a room with two beds and a pull-out, and it’s uncomfortable and cramped and all of them are on edge. Sehun’s pretty sure the majority of them are running on fumes, at this point.

Junmyeon is terrified of going anywhere with cameras, now, and he had all of them where hoods and hats to hide their faces, had them walk weirdly to disguise their heights and measurements, and did the whole business with the motel owner quickly and quietly, altering his voice to something unrecognizable.

Sehun thinks he’s going overboard, but he sees the looks Yifan and Junmyeon are sharing, and he wonders if maybe _he’s_ downplaying everything in his own mind.

He doesn’t like looking at everyone together. It becomes too clear, the large group of people they’re missing, when they are all together and he can see that there’s only five people apart from him. It’s so hard to accept and he doesn’t want to accept it. There are twelve of them, and he wants there to be twelve. Six is just unnatural.

There’s a tangible hole in their family, and it _hurts_.

Luhan’s shoulders are stiff late at night, and they shake in early morning, and Junmyeon’s eyes are tight with worry in daylight and wide with fear in the dark. Yifan’s jaw is clenched around them and his lips tremble when he thinks no one’s looking, and Yixing looks tired when he’s conscious and like death warmed over when he’s asleep. Tao looks like he might straight up collapse at all hours, and Sehun doesn’t even know what he looks like.

He doesn’t want to find out.

When it comes to the remaining members of his family, though, he’s not sure he knows what to do. He’s not very good at being super comforting. He loves the people around him, but he doesn’t know how to make something like this okay. How do you make people think things are okay when they all feel like they’re missing half of themselves? Junmyeon isn’t doing a good job trying to convince them that things are fine—they’re all very aware that things are most definitely _not_ —and Sehun seriously doubts he would do a better job.

Escaping to the roof of their motel is about as far from the others as he can get when he wants some peace and quiet, to not feel like he’s suffocating in the anxiety filling every corner of their room, and even then Yifan checks on him every fifteen minutes.

Out here, sitting on the hard cement—it doesn’t make reality any better. It doesn’t make his problems fade away. It doesn’t make everything feel better and like less of a daunting task. It does none of those things. He’s still scared, can feel the fear grinding into his bones, feel it blowing flames on his nerve endings and dragging along the sinews of his muscles.

He isn’t sure why he prefers the roof if it doesn’t really help. It makes not seeing everyone in a group so much easier, he supposes, than when they’re all locked together and it becomes hard to imagine the other six in the room next to them without his mind conjuring up the sounds of their screams as they went down, one by one. He supposes the air here is fresher than inside, but he can’t play with the wind—Junmyeon’s orders—so he’s left looking at his surroundings helplessly, taking in the long stretch of desert and the hot sun and blue skies.

He hates being up there.

It leaves him alone with his thoughts, but he thinks it’s better than being around everyone else’s—thoughts that are practically written in the air and make the atmosphere heavy with their presence. His own thoughts aren’t better, though, and he thinks he can feel them tainting the particles around him, weighing them down. He hopes that isn’t detectable by whatever machines the people—the soldiers, scientists, criminals, whatever—used to find them in the first place.

The sun is blinding, he notes, eyes closed; the pads of his finger tips scraping along the cement beneath him. It’s a peaceful few moments, but then his eyes are snapping open as he remembers that the sunset had already happened.

He’s always thought Baekhyun was the brightest star. The way his smile would light up a room, the way that he would latch onto a happy moment in a somber scene and expand on it, get everyone equally as focused on the ember of happiness until he had everyone fanning it into a full blown bonfire of joviality—he was simply the brightest star, in Sehun’s eyes.

This, though—this was a different kind of brightness. He was aglow from the inside out, starlets of _bright_ lining his veins—tendrils along his nerves, fracturing his visage and stringing it together, a road map of—of what, Sehun isn’t sure.

He’s so bright, though.

Sehun isn’t even sure he’s actually seeing him, blinks, thinking maybe it’s a fiction of his imagination. He doesn’t think past the relief, though, when Baekhyun stumbles in his steps and it scuffs up the dry desert earth, makes a small cloud. He can’t stop himself from crying out in surprise, in awe, in joy, in desperation—he doesn’t know—while he scrambles off the roof. He can hear Junmyeon’s desperate shout from inside the room, hears the door slam open, but he’s already tearing off across the ground, lips opened in a relieved smile, a joyful laugh escaping.

He doesn’t expect the heat.

He doesn’t expect to burn.

He doesn’t expect to be blinded, to see Baekhyun’s bright, bright— _bright_ —eyes be so dead, dead— _dead_.


	2. o2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, clearly, tomorrow to me means a week from when I posted this. Sorry for the wait! Here's the last chapter.

“Don’t get near me,” he shouts, and his voice cracks, scrapes over the words. His throat aches, and there are lines of pain down his whole body. Red ferns line the length of his limbs and torso, dotting and crisscrossing, sporadic and constant. He wants to shriek, but he can’t because the one shout took all that he had out of him.

He’s quivering, a shaking form strapped in a coffin, helpless to the machinations of the people in front of him. He tries to— _tried_ to—defend himself, but it just makes the ferns grow over the expanse of his skin and makes the pain so much more pronounced, and he’s not sure he can tolerate much more of it even though he keeps trying.

He thinks he screamed himself completely hoarse on the third day—he’s not sure.

He knows his throat aches, and the people in white stare impassively at him and don’t flinch when he sends shocks at them and the sky lights up, watch with blank expressions as his own body seizes as the currents of the bolt somehow make it to him and it’s so fast and he doesn’t see it and he can’t stop it—and then it’s hitting him.

It’s always hitting him.

And the people in white just keep watching on.

Jongdae thinks there might be smirks under their masks, but he can’t tell. He thinks that they’re probably laughing at him, probably getting some sick enjoyment out of it. He thinks that maybe they plan to keep him like this forever until he’s so terrified to use his power that they can do anything to him and he won’t lash out—

They haven’t even touched him, though.

All the pain he’s endured, it’s all his own doing.

He doesn’t know what to think of that. He thinks that it makes it worse, somehow. He’s not sure. It makes him terrified of himself, though—more so than he is towards the white cloaked figures. He doesn’t want to hurt himself, but the constant pain—he wonders if a part of him does want to hurt, wonders if that’s why he keeps trying to hit white coats and somehow missing, always getting hurt himself.

He thinks it’s messed up how he doesn’t even see the bolt heading towards him, only sees it heading where he thinks he wants it, but it’s pain is unmistakable, and he can see the red ferns on his skin, spreading, spreading—always spreading.

He thinks he’s lucky for not having ended up with cardiac arrest yet or something, thinks he’s fortunate to not have taken himself to the brink of death yet, but he wonders if he truly is fortunate or if that’s just something he’s telling himself in an attempt to feel better. Everything hurts and the table is cold against his burns, and he’s pretty sure the skin under the metal cuffs is inflamed and read and singed. He can see the tendrils of electricity coming out from under the lines of the cuffs, stretching up through his limbs.

It’s beautiful, in a way, but it hurts so much and he can see the bruises on the majority of his skin, ruptured blood vessels and dead cells, and he finds himself nauseated every time he looks at them, so he tries not to. It’s hard, though, because the alternative is to look at the scientists, doctors, lab coat wearing psychos, that seem to always appear when he least wants them, when he feels like he’s about to fall apart and might be stupid enough to try striking at them again and hoping against everything that it’ll hit a target.

He can’t this time, though—isn’t even given the chance to consider it before his muscles are seizing and he’s jerking against the bonds, and he knows this shock isn’t his own, knows that for a fact, and he thinks he sees the lab coats flicker out of existence, but he can’t tell because the pain is immense and he feels like he’s splintering apart.

And he can’t think because long after the shock is over, he’s still jerking and twitching, and his muscles are seizing without a care in the world, and his limbs knock and twist inside metal bonds, and his neck twists and jerks, inflamed skin slipping roughly against smoothness, clinging to the sides—

He only realizes later that it was a seizure, only realizes later that the white coats he kept seeing were holograms, only realizes later that the floor is metal and conducts his shocks back at him, only realizes later that it was the first time they caused the pain.

He only realizes later that this had probably been their goal.

 

 

 

He thinks that it was only a matter of time, but he had expected it to be longer. He didn’t think one of them would break out, but looking at the glowing man, he guesses that maybe that didn’t count as breaking out. He was let out, and that makes all the difference.

Baekhyun’s eyes are bright, typical brown shining amber and getting brighter, but he thinks that maybe that makes whoever’s in charge here antsy because a man in white is walking over with a needle, and it goes in his neck, and the glow fades as Baekhyun drops. The white coats do nothing to try and stop Baekhyun’s fall, but Yifan can feel Luhan tense next to him and he can see the fall slow slightly, knows Baekhyun—for all that he doesn’t seem to be Baekhyun at all—isn’t hurt as he hits the ground.

They’re all sore and aching, and he knows they want to know where Sehun is, the only one of them that Baekhyun—or not-Baekhyun—managed to successfully subdue completely, the element of surprise working in his favor. He doesn’t think anyone wants to be forthcoming with that information, though, because the people just stare at them in silence, like they’re waiting for something—maybe for them to be antsy enough to ask.

Yifan thinks that maybe they could break out of here. There’s a chance for them to get away. But then the question is at what cost. He doesn’t think that it would play out well for the others, if they were still alive, and it’s scary to think about—scares him down to the marrow to see their worst fears confirmed.

“Look at the screens,” one of the white clothed people directs, but Yifan isn’t sure any of them want to comply. He wants to just stare at these blank faced people wearing voice modulators and standing ramrod straight—try and pretend that none of this is happening for as long as possible.

He knows it won’t work, though, and the cry of Junmyeon’s name from the screens has all of them jerking, Junmyeon whirling around and staring, looking at the screens mounted on the walls, looking at the camera feeding their image to a Chanyeol who is crying, forced against the wall, cowering and screaming as a powerful jet of water slams against his body.

Yifan can see his ribs when the water stops, can see the way they shake as he struggles to breathe, shirt plastered against his torso. He can see the blue on his lips, the red in his eyes, the unnatural pallor of his skin, the scuffed up red, pink, of his knuckles from where they keep making harsh contact with the ground when the jet forces him back. It makes him want to puke, seeing the way his hair, soaked and limp, sticks to the sides of his face, and how he looks like he’s going to pass out or like he’s going to maybe die from hypothermia.

“Leave him alone, please,” Junmyeon gasps brokenly, and Yifan doesn’t stumble when Luhan turns away from the footage, hiding his face in his neck, fingers twisting tight into the fabric of his shirt.

For all that he tried to convince the man that this, none of this, was his fault, Yifan knows the guy still believes it is. It would have happened eventually, though. People like them—they were never going to be accepted in society like they wanted to be, never going to be viewed as normal and unthreatening.

The screen flickers and Yifan thinks he sees some emotion on a white person’s face, but it’s gone as soon as he think it’s there, and he looks away, looks as he indicates the next screen. Minseok is red, and tired, and he’s batting at the air, sweat covering his body, making his visage look like its glowing. It looks unnatural, and the air around him is steaming, a cloud surrounding him, but not hiding the red on his skin, on his cheeks, and the delirium in his eyes.

His hands are over his ears when Tao starts calling out for him, shaking his head, and Yifan let’s Luhan cling tighter, clings right back, as Minseok mutters over and over again, “It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real.”

He’s not sure how much more he can handle and all he’s doing is witnessing. The helplessness that had become almost commonplace over the duration of the last few days only feels even more unbearable the longer it goes on, standing there, surrounded by men and women in white coats, watching as his friends are tortured.

He doesn’t want to watch more, and he knows the others don’t want to see more either, but they can’t do anything, useless again, helplessly sitting there, watching and staring and listening.

“Leave them alone,” Junmyeon cries out again, and his voice is shaking, and it scares Yifan, if he’s being honest. Junmyeon with his impeccable control—watching him crumble, there’s nothing more terrifying. The room feels so humid, but despite the clamminess of his hands and the way his skin feels like it’s covered in glue, he lets Tao join in huddling against him, and Yixing is edging away from Junmyeon a bit, away from the screens.

He looks ready to pass out, and it makes Yifan reach out, grasping blindly for his hand, trying to provide some sense of stability, and he wishes he could reach Junmyeon, but Junmyeon is steadfastly standing in front of them, glaring at the white coats.

The screen flickers and Yifan is certain he sees some kind of emotion on their faces however brief it is.

The room feels hot, and he wonders if it’s just him, if the panic of the situation is just gripping him so tightly that he feels like he’s getting warmer, like he’s gluing the others to himself, not wanting to lose them, too.

The next screen flickers on, and Yifan sees Jongin, but then the image is gone because Junmyeon has a mass of water around the head of the women with the control, and Yifan watches in horror and awe and some other type of emotion he finds difficult to name as the women gasps, hands clawing at her face through the water, trying to draw air in, but unable to.

The other white coats burst into motion, but Luhan tears himself away and launches them all at the walls, turning to watch Junmyeon hold the women still, expression murderous.

Yifan knows for a fact that none of them have any intention of moving to stop him until it’s too late, but he thinks he’ll let Junmyeon think otherwise when Luhan walks over and places a hand on his shoulder, whispering, “Enough,” although it’s too late and Yifan knows she’s dead before Junmyeon releases her and her body hits the ground.

He doesn’t doubt the injuries on the ones Luhan batted away either, even if he can’t see them. The sound of bodies hitting concrete hard had been enough to assure him that they were at least knocked out.

Junmyeon picks up the remote from the ground, and he seems to brace himself. Yixing is curled in on himself, looking at the bodies, and Tao is wrapped around him, as if trying to shield him while also trying to burrow into hiding. Luhan looks away from the screens, jaw clenched, hands fisted, but Yifan understands why it is that Junmyeon is turning them on, forcing himself to watch even though he knows he doesn’t want to.

“We’re coming for you guys. We’re coming,” he assures through the microphone, stares into the camera, and Yifan steels himself even as he takes in the soaked Chanyeol, the burning Minseok, the hanging Kyungsoo, the bruised Jongdae, the drooling Jongin—

And the empty room—utterly wrecked, a gaping entrance in it, two white coats lying limp on the ground.

 

 

 

Kyungsoo hears the alarms blaring before he fully realizes what’s happening, before he hears the words—

“We’re coming.”

It makes him jerk in his bonds a bit, head weakly lifting, struggling to pull his strength from somewhere as his eyes dazedly focus on where the door usually is, hope bubbling in his chest, little bubbles that pop but are quickly replaced by others, his faith doing its best to trump the negativity born of two weeks of being suspended in air, a bucket of water periodically dropped from the ceiling to soak him so that he can drink from the droplets that slide down his face and into his mouth.

He feels weak, and he wonders if he’ll even be able to walk, but he hopes he can, hopes the adrenaline is enough.

The door opens and it feels like his heart stops for a moment, fear hammering at his ribcage, except the one entering is Luhan, a frantic look in his eyes, but a smile lights up his face as he sees Kyungsoo looking, something like relief slackening the lines of tension in his expression. Yifan stumbles in after him, looking over his shoulder, and Luhan doesn’t waste time in tugging him in.

Yifan’s hands are delicate, but Kyungsoo still finds himself hissing and letting out muffled cries as the hooks are undone, wounds oozing weakly down the length of his spine, each one alleviating a pressure in his muscles, Luhan holding him up instead of the hooks.

It’s when the last ones in his arms are undone that Kyungsoo feels relief sink into his bones along with a completely new fear, heart pounding in his chest as Luhan lowers him quickly, Yifan immediately offering his support as the other goes out the door. He hears the crack of something on cement, but Luhan’s yelling at them to hurry up, so he doesn’t think too hard about it.

He doesn’t think he even _wants_ to think about it.

“Where are the others,” he croaks, and his throat feels scratchy and dry, like he swallowed a bag of sand.

“Yixing’s trying to fix Baekhyun,” Luhan responds, hurrying down the length of the hall, rushing to identify and destroy any security cameras they come across before they’re able to pick them up, scanning the walls for some kind of opening. Kyungsoo just does his best to focus on not collapsing.

“Junmyeon and Tao are getting the others. We don’t know where Sehun is.”

Something heavy settles itself in his stomach at the thought of one of them missing, of someone else being too far out of reach, someone he had thought had been with the ones who got away, but he doesn’t know anymore. Did they manage to get Sehun that day, too? Or did it happen afterwards? Did they try to attack them again?

He tries not to think about it too hard.

“There aren’t any more rooms down this way. This is a dead end,” Luhan grunts, and Kyungsoo feels his own panic forming at the desperation in the male’s voice. It has anxiety churning in his stomach and gushing up his throat, blocking his airways, filling his lungs. “Let’s double back to Yixing. Maybe we can catch Junmyeon in one of the rooms, tell him our hallway was just Kyungsoo.”

Yifan nods, his expression grim. It doesn’t bode well for Kyungsoo’s anxiety, and it feels like it’s slipping down his legs and seizing whatever motor function he had left down there. His head is pounding and he can feel himself shaking, vision blurry.

He can’t find it in himself to protest when Yifan scoops him up and runs, Luhan leading the way, long legs pumping hard against the cement to get them back to Yixing and, presumably, Baekhyun as fast as possible.

He wonders what’s wrong with the others, what happened to them—what did Baekhyun go through? Where’s Sehun? He wants his family to be okay again, wants everything to be normal, but thoughts of what he wants, what he wishes reality was, make his throat tight and make breathing harder, make the pain so  much more intense, so he stops thinking and instead focuses on the feeling of his body shifting in Yifan’s arms as he runs, on the sound of Luhan’s muttered encouragement—whether it’s for Kyungsoo, Yifan, or Luhan himself is a mystery to him—and the slap of shoes on hard ground.

He focuses on that and lets the hopeful part of him hideaway until he can afford to acknowledge it again.

 

 

 

Tao is struggling with Chanyeol behind him, trying to keep him warm, trying to keep from crying, trying to keep them both together even though they both feel like they’re falling apart. Junmyeon can sympathize, feeling the feverish quality of Minseok’s skin beneath his fingers as he cups his face, whispering words of reassurance, letting Minseok’s nails bite into the skin of his forearms as he grips them tightly, panicked eyes taking in his face, taking in the solidity of his presence.

“You’re actually here,” he breathes out, and he sounds ragged, like he actually is running a fever, the opposite of Chanyeol who sounds like he was out in a blizzard, teeth chattering through every syllable, breath shuddering out of him in choppy bursts.

He doesn’t like either of them.

He wants them to be okay, wants them to not be suffering as they are, as he takes Minseok’s hands and pulls him to his feet, wraps an arm around him and guides him to the exit of the room. The water molecules form together easily in his hand, and he tries not to think too hard about the way Chanyeol flinches back just slightly when he raises his hand to let the small ball fall onto Minseok’s head, wetting his hair, dripping down his neck, down his face, providing some welcomed cool after the heat of the room.

Minseok still looks nauseous, though, and like everything hurts; and it makes Junmyeon want to cry because he doesn’t know what to do.

“We have to go now,” Tao calls to him, but there’s so much of the hall left and Junmyeon doesn’t want to abandon the others, doesn’t want to turn around because—what if he can’t come back?

“There’s one more room,” is all he can respond with, taking in the light outline of the door further down the hall, and he doesn’t know if any of them understand the desperation in his voice, the verifiable need he feels to go into this room, to get the last member of their family in this hall. He can’t leave. He doesn’t think he can make his feet turn the other way like that without whoever is on the other side.

“I can—I can walk. I can walk,” Minseok coughs out next to him, shifting away, shaking but not from cold. His arms are wrapped tightly around his middle and sweat is still beading along his skin, and there’s still a feverish quality to his expression, but he’s alive and Junmyeon knows he can’t focus on more than just that simple fact right now. They don’t have the time for it.

Chanyeol reaches out for Minseok, arm shaking, and Minseok falls into him, probably finding reprieve in the cold, wet material of Chanyeol’s clothes even though the guy himself is shaking like a leaf, lips blue and skin ashen. Junmyeon wants to help both of them, but they’re on a time constraint and there’s just that _one more room_.

“I got it,” Tao assures him, holding on tight to the two huddled forms, already leading them down the hall, ready to catch them if they stumble in their hurry. He meets Tao’s eyes, tries to show his gratitude, but he doesn’t think his expression is capable of more than grimaces right now.

Tao seems to understand anyways, though, because his lips quirk just slightly, and that’s all the confirmation Junmyeon needs before he’s turning away and rushing down the hall to the final room because they don’t have the time for much more than that.

The alarms are ringing overhead and Junmyeon tries not to think of the bodies he left strewn around, of the people he filled the lungs of with the water from the jets directed at Chanyeol, not even giving the time for it to happen naturally, but funneling it in on his own, movements quick and precise.

He does his best not to think about it, about how they were embodying everything they had tried so hard to not be—forced into a corner, left no choice but to fight back in order to get out safely and with their family intact.

He forces the door open as soon as he reaches it, running in and freezing as he takes in Jongdae, strapped to a table in the center of the room. The floor beneath his feet is metal, and it makes a hollow echoing sound. Bruised eyelids flutter open and bloodshot eyes scan the room until they focus on him and Jongdae is trying to lift his head suddenly, but there’s a metal cuff around his neck and his wrists and his ankles, one circling his torso, too, and he’s covered in bruises and burns all the way down. His clothes are scorched, and Junmyeon kind of wants to vomit at the smell in the room.

Like burnt flesh and ozone—it makes his stomach roll.

“Fuck, Jongdae,” he breathes out, hurrying into the room, metal ringing with each step, fingers working quickly to undo the tight leather beneath the table that holds the cuffs down. The throat one goes first and he tries not to focus too much on the inflamed skin and the patterns lining Jongdae’s flesh.

Yixing’s healing wouldn’t get rid of the scars, and the thought makes him want to cry.

Only time would take away the evidence.

“Come on, ‘Dae, let’s go,” he whispers, trying to keep his voice soothing as he helps Jongdae’s twitching limbs get in order and holds him tightly against himself as they shuffle out of the room as quickly as he can manage, eventually just scooping the male into his arms and taking off at the fastest run he can manage with the extra weight.

 

 

 

Panic fills him completely and utterly. Yixing is holding a shaking Baekhyun, hand pressed securely to the male’s nape, other hand fitted on his side, letting Baekhyun curl into him, shaking and sobbing, hands curled into tight fists. Yixing’s face is covered in sweat, and his eyes are swollen, red, and shining bright with unshed tears. It pulls at something inside him and makes his chest ache.

Ignoring the uncomfortable feeling settling in his chest which seems to be determined on squeezing the life out of him, Luhan makes his way to the screens, looking at the images of the cells his friends had been kept in, looking for Junmyeon’s form, but all the rooms are empty except—

Except Jongin’s room and _that,_ that doesn’t bode well for them at all.

The door behind them opens as Yixing is running gentle fingers along the tops of Kyungsoo’s wounds, tension climbing high into his muscles, hands starting to tremble and breathing harsh. High pained sounds escape him, and Luhan wishes he could plug his ears and tune it all out because he doesn’t want to hear the people he holds most dear being in so much pain. Tao’s appearance is a welcome distraction, loaded with Chanyeol and Minseok, huddled together.

Casting a glance at Yixing, at the strain on his face as Kyungsoo slumps further and further in relief, wounds slowly stitching closed, he hurries over to the three males that made it back to what Yifan had dubbed home base. Minseok is feverish, and Luhan doesn’t really know what to do for that. Junmyeon is more equipped to handle that than he is, but he knows what to do for the shivers wracking Chanyeol’s body.

“Alright, you need to get out of these clothes—come on,” he urges, working quickly to drag soaked material over Chanyeol’s head and down his legs, making sure to not look too closely at the increased prominence of Chanyeol’s bones or the yellow and purple splotching of large bruises on his skin. He’s so, so pale, and he looks at the soaked mound of clothes in his hand and over to Minseok’s feverish appearance. “Okay, okay,” he whispers, shaking his head a bit. “Switch clothes with him,” he instructs, holding out the wet clothes at Minseok.

“How is that going to help?” Tao hisses, rubbing his hands up and down Chanyeol’s arms, trying to warm him up.

“Minseok’s hot and Chanyeol’s clothes are wet. Chanyeol needs to be dry and Minseok’s clothes are dry. It’s quid pro quo.” He hadn’t realized that Minseok had already stripped down with sluggish, inaccurate movements until the wet clothes are being tugged out of his hands and the male is pulling them on awkwardly with a relieved shiver, flush high on his cheeks, sweat beading and slipping down his brow.

Tao is frowning, but then he’s taking off his own shirt and rubbing it along Chanyeol’s skin quickly and perfunctorily, soaking up all the moisture he can reach before stepping back to let Luhan pull the shirt Minseok had been wearing over his head, helping Chanyeol step into the pants.

“Come over here,” Kyungsoo calls from where he’s sitting next to Yixing, Yixing just barely holding himself up, leaning against Yifan as he pants, soft wheezing breaths that filter past his lips, eyes hazy and exhausted. His arms are open, and Chanyeol doesn’t hesitate before stumbling his way over, falling to his knees on the ground and shuffling closer, letting Kyungsoo hold him tightly in his arms, leeching off his warmth.

“No more healing for you, okay, ‘Xing?” Yifan whispers; and Luhan watches them from where he stands next to Tao, hovering by the door worriedly. “Jongin is our ticket out of here, so he’s the last one you’re going to heal tonight. Then, you’ll rest. Everyone will be fine till tomorrow.”

Luhan can only watch Yixing blearily nod as he tries to filter through all the pain, brow furrowed and mouth gaping slightly to let hot breaths fan out against Yifan’s shoulder. Looking at the exhausted heap his family members make, his heart breaks, and he turns away, the door flying open behind him to let Junmyeon in.

The white coat behind them drops to the ground in a heap, and Tao shuffles into the room after him, closing the door quickly. Luhan wants to pull him close immediately, knows that Tao’s powers really aren’t made for violence, that anything that occurs he has to do with his own hands. It makes his stomach churn and his skin tingle, makes everything feel like it’s too small and like the persistent itch along his nerve endings is never going to go away.

“I’m fine,” Jongdae declares groggily as Junmyeon places him on the floor clumsily, scanning his face worriedly. Jongdae just bats his concern away with marked hands and inflamed wrists and a bruised everything. Luhan can see the red crawling up his neck like the path of electricity in the sky, the inflamed ring around his throat. His clothes are scorched black, and the burns lining his skin look like ferns—Lichtenberg figures, his mind supplies unhelpfully.

“Is everyone here?” Junmyeon rasps out, giving Jongdae one more concerned look that he waves off before he’s moving over to Minseok and placing soft hands on his forehead, carding his fingers through sweaty locks and letting water form in the tips of his fingers and watching it soak the strands slowly, cooling Minseok’s feverish skin.

“No,” Yifan whispers, looking up from Yixing’s slack face and dazed eyes. “We’re still missing Jongin and Sehun.”

“And Jongin” Baekhyun croaks from behind them all, bleary eyes looking at the screens, fear tight in the lines of his face, “he’s not in his room anymore.”

 

 

 

“No, no, no, no—stop it!”

He grunted as another hand came down on his chest, and he grabbed at the flailing limb, forcing it down to the side, wrapping his arms tightly around the individual. “Jongin, come on, it’s me.”

“I just want to go home. I want to go home.”

The man in his arms stops his thrashing, going limp, and he stumbles under the added weight, wrapping his arms around the quivering form, hand coming up to shove back sweaty bangs and peer at eyes stitched shut. It makes acid burn in his mouth, and he fumbles about the room, grabbing the surgical scissors on the table to the side, giving the electrocution table a wide berth, trying not to remember how Jongin looked strapped to it, the metal screws of the helmet digging into his flesh, drool escaping his mouth, blindfold tight around his eyes.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers softly, hissing as Jongin kicks weakly, hiccupping breaths escaping him, skin sickly pale. “It’s just me. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Stop,” the male whines weakly, head rolling forward, but Sehun presses it back with a firm hand.

“You need to stay still,” he hisses, fiddling with the scissors fitted around his fingers, shifting to the wall, pressing Jongin’s body flat against it, using his own body to hold him firm, but it sends Jongin thrashing again, blind and helpless, lips bitten raw and bleeding, whimpers slipping out uselessly. “Stay still, _stay still_ ,” he grits out, pressing his free hand flat on Jongin’s forehead and holding his head firmly against the wall.

The blades of the scissors are cold against the thin skin of Jongin’s eyelid, and Sehun can feel his hands sweating as he watches them twitch, the tip of the blade slipping under one of the tight threads and he slowly closes it, watches the thread split under the fine pressure. Jongin’s making small, desperate noises against the wall, fingers twitching sporadically, like he wants to fight or grab or something but is too scared to move.

“It’s going to be okay, Jongin. It’s going to be fine,” he promises in a low voice, although he doesn’t know how true that is. These people—they had managed to break Baekhyun’s mind, turn him against them. They had tried to do the same with Sehun. He doesn’t know, really, if they’re actually going to be okay, if they’re really going to be able to make it out of here.

He can hear footsteps coming down the hall, and it makes Jongin twitch, a broken, “No,” escaping his lips that makes Sehun’s heart stutter in panic, his lips pressing firmly together as he focuses on snipping the next thread, tugging them out as quickly as he can manage, adding his other hand as it seems like Jongin is holding still on his own.

When the threads are tugged out and Jongin’s eye squints open hesitantly, it’s like a breath of fresh air—except not really because Jongin is crying and his eyes are crusty and sensitive, bloodshot and swollen, and he’s blurrily taking in Sehun’s face with a mixture of confusion and relief, a clammy hand coming up to touch awkwardly at his face with freezing fingers.

They don’t have the time to relish in being reconnected, though, because the footsteps are getting closer, and Sehun can feel the panic building. He thinks, selfishly, that he doesn’t want to go through what he’s witnessed—he doesn’t want to be the one strapped to the table, tortured and pulled apart. He doesn’t want to think of what they would do to stop his abilities, to control them.

“Can you—is your power—can you use it?” he whispers hurriedly, and Jongin blinks his one hazy eye at him as Sehun turns the scissors around in his hands and steps away so that they can move from the wall and to the door. Jongin is shaking in fright, one eye wide and taking in his surroundings in a panic.

“I—I’m not sure,” he admits weakly, grasping at Sehun’s hand tightly, wiping at the tender skin of his eye with his other hand, blinking rapidly. He shifts, and he’s looking at the door from the other side, but they’re only just out of the entrance, Jongin’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “I didn’t aim for here; I don’t know—what’s wrong with me?”

Sehun curses softly, looking around himself, turning Jongin’s head with his hand. “See the end of the hall, past those guys? Aim for that.”

Jongin’s hand is clammy against his own sweaty one, and his fingers are stiff and tight, but he gets them to the end of the hall, rubbing at his eye once they’re there, letting Sehun lead him blindly down the passageway, not giving the white coats time to adjust. His stomach is tight and air feels difficult to draw in, but Sehun works hard on drawing it in anyways, stopping at the end of the hall.

“Same deal, Jongin. This hall, aim for the end.”

When they land further from the corner than Jongin wanted, the male frowns once more, rubbing at his eyes. “I don’t know what’s wrong.”

“Don’t worry about it right now—just _move_ ,” Sehun urges, and he thinks that it might be the raw panic in his voice that has him hurrying along Sehun, footsteps echoing behind them. It acts like a fire lit under them and they take off like shots down the halls, Sehun telling Jongin where to aim, and they always land a bit off, but Sehun makes sure Jongin doesn’t get time to think about it.

It’s only when they’re bursting through the door, confronted by ten pairs of eyes, that Sehun feels any of the panic lift a bit. A burst of wind has the door slamming shut, and Luhan is automatically sliding all the furniture to block it, looking at Sehun and Jongin, their hands tightly clasped together.

“Where were you guys?”

“Not important,” he responds, quickly hurrying with Jongin to the group of people, grabbing Jongin’s face tightly with one hand, Yixing coming up behind Jongin quickly and placing is hands on his scalp, carding his fingers through the strands while Sehun hooks one of the blades under a thread on Jongin’s other eye. The fabric splits under the blade, and he hates that he has to be less gentle, but the white coats are hurrying down the maze of hallways, and they really don’t have much time left.

He can’t afford to be gentle.

The threads come out with quick pinches and pulls and Jongin’s eyes are finally fluttering open, Yixing’s hands wrapping around to touch the skin gently, just the barest brush of his fingertips. Yifan is pulling up the picture of the place he and Junmyeon decided on to hunker down, and Junmyeon to getting everyone to huddle tight around Jongin, each one placing a hand on Jongin’s person.

Jongin’s brown eyes take stock of the image shoved in his face, and Yifan is holding Yixing’s tired form, and Kyungsoo is huddled around Chanyeol who is still shivering—although less so—and being in such close quarters with everyone is doing Minseok no favors, and Baekhyun looks ready to collapse, and Junmyeon looks ill, and Tao is crying, and Luhan’s a solid presence behind Sehun, but his shoulders are shaking like they do in the early mornings these past few days, and Junmyeon is making sure Jongdae stays standing, and Sehun is looking at Jongin’s wide eyes, crusty and swollen and red.

“You got this,” he whispers, and he doesn’t think Jongin believes him, but they’re out of time because the door is slowly being shoved open under the collective force of the white coats and if they don’t go now, they’re going to be trapped and tortured and experimented on and—“You got this.”

Jongin’s lips are quivering and he looks at the picture again before looking at the eleven hands holding tight to him before he’s staring at the picture once more, and the door bursts open.

 

 

 

Everything hurts, and Yixing is holding Jongin’s head tightly in his hands as Jongin screams, thrashing, limbs kicking out, and everyone scrambles away, grass cushioning their clumsy steps and the resounding falls. It feels like his head is splitting apart, like his brain is being burned from the inside, like his eyes are having a thousand needles stabbed into each one, and Yixing is crying over him, tears hot as they fall on his face.

His crying face, upside down, is the last thing he processes seeing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a last bit of fun, feel free to comment why you think I called this story "I Can't See You". Those who get it right get a hearty "congratulations" and a sense of accomplishment.
> 
> Anyways, thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed. Let me know what you thought in the comments below.
> 
> Feel free to find me on Twitter ( @kxmjxngs ) and say hello!

**Author's Note:**

> The second part will be up tomorrow? Maybe? Who knows, really...


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